


The Stockbrokers' Courier

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Sherlock needs Greg, rather than the other way around, to solve a particularly challenging case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Morning Visitor

"I need the keys to your motorbike."

Greg cracked one eye open to peer through the pre-dawn gloom of his bedroom. There was a tall apparition with a baritone voice standing two feet away from his bed. For a moment, Lestrade wondered if this was a dream (nightmare?). He opened the other eye and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 4 _.17am._

"Sherlock, why are you in my bedroom in the middle of the night?"

"Oh really, Lestrade, what part of my statement did you not understand? Was it the word 'keys' or the word 'motorbike'?"

The older man shifted himself up onto an elbow and glowered at Sherlock. "Ok, smart ass, let me re-phrase that question. Why couldn't this wait until daylight? Or better still, why didn't you just carry on and  _steal_  the keys? I am sure that someone able to break into my flat without disturbing me should have been able to deduce where I keep the keys and leave without waking me up."

"Because I know you take at least 36 minutes to wake up, shower, shave, and have a coffee before you can even think of moving out the door, and we have to leave here by five if we are to arrive in Brighton before eight am." This was delivered in Sherlock's usual blistering speed, without drawing more than a single breath.

Lestrade groaned and flopped back onto his bed. "You mean you want more than the keys, Sherlock; 'we', you said 'we', which implies that you want to involve me in some way. What, you want me to drive you there, with you on the back of my bike? Why can't you just take the bloody train like everyone else?"

"Yes, of course, I want you to come along. The plan will work much better if there are two of us. Less likely to arouse suspicion."

"What plan?"

"I will explain as you are getting ready."

"Sherlock, this is the first weekday off I've taken in months, and I had a nice lie-in planned. Why on earth would I want to go gallivanting across the countryside of southern England?"

"Consider it a busman's holiday. I'm on the trail of a gang that is behind the spate of thefts from stockbrokers over the past three months, and the motorcycle is a key part of our disguise."

"What thefts? I haven't heard anything about thefts from stockbrokers."

"Well, no, you wouldn't have. First of all, it's in the jurisdiction of the City of London Police, not the Met, and second because none of the brokers have reported the thefts to the police, for fear of putting off their wealthy private clients."

Lestrade groaned. "If this isn't even on a station blotter anywhere, then how can it be a policeman's holiday?"

"Just get up and head for the bathroom. You know that once you are awake, you'll enjoy this more than what you were planning to do."

"And how the hell would you know what I was planning to do with my one week day off in weeks?"

Sherlock looked up at the bedroom ceiling as if looking for some divine assistance to help him deal with the idiot lying in bed in front of him. "Oh, all right. Stay at home then. The shopping list that you left on the kitchen counter means that Tesco is on your itinerary, as is doing the laundry and returning the library books that you niece checked out when she was last here three months ago, but which you will only just find today because this is the first time you will have cleaned the spare room properly since she left. Shall I go on with this parade of domesticity, or have you really lost all interest in solving crimes?"

By now, Lestrade was sitting on the edge of the bed, running his hands over his face and through his silver hair to wake himself up. "Well, since you put it so nicely, maybe I wouldn't mind getting the bike out. It's been a while. Weather forecast for today is good, might make a pleasant outing."

Sherlock grimaced, but the effect was lost in the gloom of the bedroom. "Pleasant outing? Not if I get my way," he muttered as he wandered into the flat's kitchen and started preparing coffee.

oOo

Shaved, showered and dressed, Lestrade seemed more awake as he drank the coffee that Sherlock had made them. "Where's John? Shouldn't he be with you, rather than me?"

"Last time I checked, John didn't own a motorcycle, and I know for a fact that he considers them suicidal given the number of traffic fatalities that occur due to their use. A bike like yours is crucial to my plan. You  _look_  the part, and I can get in with the bikers easier if they aren't suspicious."

"You think I look like a biker?" The role of a detective inspector these days had managerial responsibilities as well as duties dealing with the public so he cultivated an aura of be-suited but approachable professional. Lestrade was secretly pleased that Sherlock thought he looked like someone who could be a biker; it seemed more macho and youthful than his day job. To be honest, he had been passionate about the bike twenty years ago, and enjoyed being a bit of a lad on it, but the opportunities to keep it up had faded over time. Still, the thought of selling his Norton would be too much of a formal goodbye to his youthful days as a boy racer.

"Well, yes- there is something about someone in obviously worn biker's leathers astride an antique Norton that kind of projects the correct image, doesn't it? I assume you still have both? And I still have my kit." Sherlock gestured to the sports bag at his feet.

Lestrade found himself touched by the fact that Sherlock had kept the leathers for the years since the two of them had last ventured out. It had been during the second time that the Detective Inspector had banned Sherlock from crime scenes for a month due to his cocaine addiction. What was different this time is that instead of going into rehab as his brother demanded, Sherlock had talked Greg into sleeping on Sherlock's sofa for the weekend while he came down and put it all behind him, again. Withdrawal from cocaine was less physically awful than from heroin, but depression and anxiety were common side effects. Without cases to keep him occupied, Lestrade had given Sherlock the keys to his bike and told him to get out in some fresh air. He'd never asked where Sherlock had gone, but he often thought that the young man's encyclopaedic knowledge of London's road network might have been born in those four weeks.

He finished the coffee and pulled on his sweatshirt, then rummaged around in the bottom of his wardrobe for the set of leathers and boots. When he reappeared, he looked the part. Sherlock just looked at him, really looked at him, with the usual forensic intensity he reserved for corpses, and Greg frowned a bit at him, self-consciously.

"You'll do."

Greg decided that was as close to a compliment as Sherlock would ever get. He crossed his arms and watched Sherlock feed his lanky limbs into skin tight leathers. _You have no idea what a picture you are, Sherlock Holmes._  It was one of the oddest things that Greg had realised years ago, when he first met Sherlock. The young man had no idea what effect his looks had on the people around him.  _All that forensic insight, and he's totally blind to how people see him._  Or maybe not, as the first thing that Sherlock seemed to do when meeting new people was to open his mouth and offend them.  _Back off; I may look nice, but I bite!_ It took a person with remarkable patience, a thick skin and more than a little self-interest to hang around the younger Holmes brother. Greg's clear up rate was one of the highest on the force, but he knew that at times that success had been purchased at the expense of his own and his team's feelings. Despite Sherlock's now ritual abuse of his intelligence, Lestrade was actually very good at his job, and in his ability to read Sherlock like a book.

 _And this book is telling me something interesting right now._  The fact that Sherlock had not blasted him with facts at a mile a minute suggested that this plan of his was probably risky. The fact that he had not involved John was further testament to the fact that it was probably  _very_  risky.  _John would possibly have stopped him, so he has come to me instead, and hopes to keep me in the dark until it's too late to argue_.

Lestrade's arms were still crossed against his chest, leaning up against the kitchen doorframe when Sherlock realised that he wasn't being followed out of the flat. He stopped and looked back at the DI.

"Right, now that I've got your attention, Sherlock, gimme a rundown, or this show will not get on the road. You promised an explanation, and I'm not going anywhere until I get it."

Sherlock glared at him, but the silver haired detective was immovable. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Lestrade was about to find out.


	2. London to Brighton Run

Sherlock huffed. "We're wasting time. We have to be in Brighton by eight."

"Nope, I'm not budging until you tell me what's going on."

"Oh, ye of little faith, Detective Inspector." He stared at the DI, who just calmly looked him back straight in the eye. They had lots of previous experience with this sort of stand-off, starting when Sherlock was detoxing, but it was a strange combination of prickly argument with professional respect that had grown over the years into a rarely-voiced mutual affection.

In the end, it was Sherlock who broke the deadlock. "Oh, all right then- have it your way!" His frustration meant that he now ripped through his explanation at break neck speed, as if daring the DI to keep up with him. "There've been four incidents when important documents – negotiable bearer bonds- have gone missing from stockbrokers. Not the same firm, each time a different one; it was inexplicable despite the brokers' own in-house investigations. The sums involved were not small- usually around £100,000 transactions – but in the great scheme of things for brokers these days, tiny losses which the firm made good. They were only discovered when the bonds that were subsequently traded by the client were discovered to be forgeries. Nobody has been able to figure out when the swaps were made, and the bogus bonds substituted for the real thing. You know that brokers are loathe to report these thefts to either the police or the Financial Services Authority; bad publicity when client monies go missing. So, none of the four realised that there was a pattern."

All this had been delivered by Sherlock in a single breath, so Greg found it amusing that the detective was forced to drag in fresh oxygen before he could continue. Taking advantage of the tiny gap, Lestrade decided to jump in. "So, how'd you find out about it? Lose some money?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. I don't handle any investments; that's all Mycroft's area. And you know damn well that he keeps me on a tight financial leash."

"Well, you did have a problem with banking your allowance up your arm for a while; can't blame him for being a little cautious." Lestrade kept his sarcasm light, but he made his point.

Sherlock just waved in annoyance. "This is nothing to do with me. Well, I say that, but actually I found out about it because one of the clients- a banker- contacted me when his investment got ripped off. He was the old acquaintance from university whose employee got involved with that Chinese smuggling case- Sebastian Wilkes; you never met him, the case was handled by DI Dimmock."

He rushed on before Lestrade could interrupt again. "It's taken me a little while, but I have been able to unearth these other three thefts, and I expect there are others that other larger brokers won't admit to- probably because the banks that own them would get rather annoyed."

"So, you have an idea of how it's being done?"

"Yes, and the best way to prove it is to do it. So, hence our need to get to Brighton."

"I'm not following your thinking here. What's in Brighton?"

"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade, if we don't get onto that bike of yours soon, we will hit rush hour traffic and we'll never get there in time. Once we clear London, we can stop to re-fuel and I will explain more."

Greg's Norton was kept in a lock up garage behind the block of flats. His car had gone with the wife when they split up, and the police provided a company car, so he seldom had need for the bike. Nevertheless, as Greg pulled off the dust cloth over the machine, Sherlock could see that every piece of chrome gleamed with the love and attention of a bike-mad devotee. It was a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger-it still drew admiring glances whenever he took it out for a spin, which, to be honest, he wished he did more often.

As the DI wheeled the bike out of the garage behind the flat, he wore a smile at the thought of tearing down the road to Brighton. London traffic moved at an average of 12 miles an hour, whether you were riding a bicycle or driving a Porsche, so it did not give much scope for speed. He rarely had a reason to take the bike out of London, so he was looking forward to the excuse of hitting the motorway. There was only one thing nagging at his conscience- Sherlock had said the best way to prove how the crimes were being done would be "to do it". That worried Lestrade no end and he kept coming back to that thought as he ploughed his way across London's early morning traffic- lorries trying to beat their delivery deadlines, commuters trying to get in before the congestion charges started meant that traffic in London was almost always busy, day and night. He had to concentrate on the road. Behind him, Sherlock moved with him as he leaned into turns; he had not forgotten how to mirror the driver's weight distribution. Greg knew from experience that Sherlock did not like touching or being touched, but he felt the younger man's hands at his hips making sure that the two riders worked together. Lestrade was an inch and half shorter than Sherlock, but he was sixteen years older and had a lot more experience on the bike, so there was never an argument as to which of them would be in front.

Only once they got past the South Circular Road did the DI return to the problem of what Sherlock had said about the crime they would be investigating. While in the past he might have been willing to turn a blind eye to Sherlock's bending the rules so long as it did not prejudice a case, the idea of becoming an accessory to a crime was just ten steps too far from where a Detective Inspector needed to be- especially if it involved another police force. Relations between the Met and the City of London police force were fraught at the best of times. When a square mile of territory right in the middle of London was under another force's jurisdiction, it inevitably led to disputes. Only the fact that there were more banks, stockbrokers and insurance companies than actual residents inside that square mile kept the two forces from stepping on each other's toes. Financial crime was pretty sophisticated these days, and required specialist training, so New Scotland Yard tended to just let them do their own thing.

He glanced down at the Ranger's petrol gauge; Sherlock was right. Greg never left a lot of petrol in the tank; he used the bike so rarely that it would either evaporate or just pose a fire risk. They would need to re-fuel soon. He decided to pull into a service station on the A23, between Streatham and Norbury. It took only moments to fill the bike's tank, but he used the opportunity to remove his crash helmet and gestured to Sherlock to do the same.

"Ok, tell me what happens in Brighton. Where are we going, and who is down there that matters for a series of thefts in the City?"

Sherlock hesitated. That worried Lestrade more than anything. Sherlock  _never_  hesitated.

"The thefts are being done by motorcycle couriers. Never the same courier company, and never the same stockbroker. I've been trying to figure out how they do it, and think that it is related to the fact that almost anyone in a set of leathers and a crash helmet looks like everyone else in the same gear; it's a perfectly anonymous disguise. Substituting a thief for the real courier only needs someone on the inside to organise it. Deduction suggests it's a temp, a secretary or assistant who can work in different brokers, spot the opportunity and then organise a pick up when she knows that her partner is ready to take the place of a bone fide courier. Someone like that could ensure that the bogus courier shows up with the right company logo on the leathers, the right brand on the collection pouch so it doesn't arouse suspicions. The thefts have been happening at two month intervals, which is long enough to spot the opportunity, organise the theft and then move on."

"Why did you hesitate? You  _never_ hesitate. What's wrong with this?"

Sherlock gave a tiny wry smile. "It's pure deduction- there is absolutely  _no_  evidence at all."

"My God, Sherlock. Are you actually admitting to  _guessing?!"_

The younger man scowled at him. "No. I don't  _guess_. I deduce."

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "That still doesn't explain Brighton. Why are we headed there?"

That raised a little smirk. "Because there is a biker's rally down there today; it's an annual event that pits teams from the main City courier companies against one another. Odds are that our bogus courier and his insider are going to be down there, spotting opportunities. It's most likely that the thief is someone who has worked with at least a couple of the firms. He has to know the procedures, have the right paperwork, be familiar with the different routines and security arrangements. If he is sensible, he will be down there touting for work, and so will we."

Lestrade realised that Sherlock had hesitated because he was grasping at straws. "And, just how, amongst dozens and dozens of bikers, are you going to be able to figure out which two are your thieves? Sounds like you're hunting for a needle in a haystack."

"Oh, that's the easy part, Lestrade. You'll just have to trust me on that." He got off the bike and went into the petrol station to pay.


	3. Rally Round

The premise of the rally was simple: the big bike courier companies competed against each other in a kind of treasure hunt, picking up and delivering packets to pre-set destinations without knowing where they were supposed to be going next until they got there. Each of the five big companies had a dispatcher managing teams of five bikes, and each bike had two riders- one to pick up, the other to plot the route. None of the bikers really knew the area well, given their normal beats were in London. Sat nav for bikers relied on mobile phone technology, and no app ever had the home-grown knowledge, such as where a short cut through a parking lot could cut minutes off a journey, or how to avoid the longest traffic lights in town. It was a test of teamwork and a bit like rally car driving, where the navigator was almost as important as the driver. The order of the destinations was different for each bike pair; what mattered were the minutes clocked up between stops, which were tallied at the end of the rally- the team with the lowest time won.

"Our chance comes from the fact that there are always at few scratch teams." Sherlock explained the rules over a cup of coffee at Redroaster, down a little side street of Brighton's main north/south road. They had almost seventy minutes to go before registration opened for the rally, and Lestrade had insisted on a breakfast. Sherlock used the time to brief him. "Courier companies don't like to have a lot of permanent employees, so they hire casual labour for the busy periods. It's quite possible for one self-employed courier to work for several different companies, and that's who I am banking on as our suspect. The rally teams will be permanent staff, but the contractors club together to form at least one five bike team of their own. And the dispatcher of the scratch team owes me a favour, so I've entered us as one of them."

Greg smirked. "So, far from finding a needle in a haystack, if there's only one scratch team, you're actually guessing that one of the other four bike pairs is our suspect, or nine pairs if there are two teams?"

Sherlock looked at the detective with an annoyed frown. "Guessing? What part of my work for you has ever involved  _guessing_?" He sniffed, "Really, Lestrade if you intend to carry on criticising my methods, I just might start favouring another detective at the yard with my deductive skills- could make you a little less complacent if someone like Dimmock starts challenging your clear-up rates."

Greg smirked. "You're not the only one who can wind someone up, Sherlock. I just like rattling the bars of your cage occasionally."

Sherlock glowered, but Lestrade could recognise when he was actually playing along with the tease rather than being really offended. They had spent enough time in each other's company over the years to be able to banter like this. He sat back and took a long pull at the take-away latte, then devoured his second almond croissant in a series of quick bites. "You really should eat something you know; that brain of yours needs some fuel other than coffee." Sherlock had inhaled a double espresso in two seconds flat. "You'd mainline caffeine if you could, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He was looking out the window, keeping an eye on the parked bike, which had drawn admiring glances from the morning commuters walking to work. Greg just watched him, enjoying how the morning light fell on the angles of that face, and the unruly dark hair now freed from the confines of his crash helmet. So often at a crime scene, Sherlock was in constant motion, and Greg was on duty, so they rarely had a chance to spend any time in silent companionship. Now that John was sharing Baker Street with Sherlock, the consulting detective had stopped seeking out Greg's company when he needed an audience or just someone around to stave off the cravings. That had been their relationship before John, but Greg did not resent seeing Sherlock less, given the obvious fact that he was doing just fine now. The young man had put on weight, and had a normal pallor instead of that grey wasted look when he had been on his own, pushing himself too far for too long. Greg had long ago learned the signs of a danger night, and been so relieved that since John arrived, those times seemed to have passed. He thought to himself that the idea of a flat share had been a master-stroke, but thanked luck for crossing John Watson's path with Sherlock's. No one could have predicted that.

The older man smiled to himself. Yes, it had been something of a roller-coaster ride, knowing Sherlock over the years. He'd seen him high, low and everywhere in between. He'd seen him ecstatic at scenes that would turn a normal person's blood cold.  _Normal is not a word I would apply to him._

In the early days, he found Sherlock alternately fascinating and frightening, and so clearly in need of some sort of anchor. The DI also vacillated between thinking Mycroft was a saint for putting up with his brother and knowing that Mycroft was also the villain responsible for at least a significant part of the problem. He and Mycroft had come to an understanding over the years, with the older Holmes now realising that Lestrade could be trusted to put Sherlock's well-being above his need to solve cases.

Above all else, Greg was continually amazed by Sherlock's unique gifts, and willing to put up with the peculiarities and eccentricities that drove the rest of his team wild. Thanks to his nephew Sam, he knew the challenges that people like Sherlock would always face. What impressed Greg then and still did every day he spent time in his company, was how Sherlock managed to turn what most people saw as a mental handicap into quite profound genius. Greg just liked to see that mind at work- it was fascinating.

The object of his musing suddenly stood up and grabbed his crash helmet. "Come on," Sherlock said with some impatience. "You've had enough time to eat and drink coffee; we've got work to do."


	4. Start Your Engines

By the time they got to the rally start on Marine Parade, there were easily thirty bikers already there, queuing for registration, getting their racing numbers on, and there were lots of bystanders milling about, looking at the bikes and enjoying the atmosphere. There was banter between the courier teams- most of them knew each other quite well from years of bumping into each other in the delivery rooms of banks, solicitors and other companies. Sherlock barged the queue at the registration tent and managed to get out in record time, bearing two purple plastic bibs with numbers on them.

"We're the first of the scratch team pairs to register; our dispatcher is over there." He gestured toward a line-up of tables under a marquee, full of radio handsets on charge. As Greg brought the bike around, Sherlock went to the fourth station along and shook hands with a big bloke with a full beard. It was mostly brown but going grey in places, and when he stood to shake Sherlock's hand, Lestrade could see that he had a prosthetic leg below his right knee. Sherlock introduced the man. "This is Rob, he's dispatching the two scratch teams." He then introduced Lestrade. "This is Lestrade, he'll be my driver."

The bearded man looked Greg over and then his eyes lit up as he saw Greg's bike. "Och- she's a beauty! Well, anybody who is Sherlock's friend is my friend, so welcome aboard." As Sherlock picked up two radio sets and turned to leave, Rob called out "Hey laddie, you know I'm counting on you. You've got the knowledge to beat the pants off these Sassenachs. I just hope your driver can take crazy instructions without arguing." He waved them off good naturedly.

"What's a one-legged Scotsman doing down here running biker teams, and where on earth did you two meet?" Greg's didn't bother to disguise his surprise to Sherlock, who was slipping on the number bib over his leather jacket.

Sherlock explained as he fitted a Velcro holster to the bib and slipped the radio in, as if he had been doing it for years. Greg followed his lead. "I've known Rob since I was homeless; met him he had an accident in front of where I was busking. He came off his bike at speed and people were hanging about not knowing what to do while waiting for the ambulance. I realised he was a diabetic, so got him to eat some candy. They couldn't save his leg- pulverised the tibia into mush- but he claims I saved his life. I didn't do that- I just saw the truth while other idiots observed an injured man who was acting drunk. His fall was caused by a diabetic shock."

Greg smiled. It was typical Sherlock- to have done something amazing, but then dismiss it whilst at the same time accusing other people of being idiots. "What now?"

"Now, we wait. And  _observe,_ Lestrade. as best you can; you may actually learn to do more than just  _see_  someday. I want a good look at the other nine scratch bike pairs. We're looking for any male-female combination."

oOo

Out of the nine other scratch biker pairs, there were only three that involved a male-female mix. As they turned up and collected the purple bibs and their radios from Rob, Sherlock was in full deducing mode, scrutinising their every move. As the clock moved closer to 10am, the teams gathered round. Rob made introductions, Sherlock instantly deleted any of the names for the male pairings, but Greg watched as he introduced himself to the three mixed pairs. As ever, he found it amusing to watch Sherlock pour on the charm. He could act 'normal' whenever it suited him. Greg knew it to be an act, but also realised that what others more critical might see as the manipulation inherent of a sociopath, the detective inspector accepted as an essential undercover tool.

When Sherlock returned to Greg at the bike, he said quietly, "Pair numbers Four and Nine are the ones to watch. Pair Six is not likely; the woman's hands are those of a manual worker; her nails alone would disqualify her from being a City temp." Greg snuck a quick look at the two pairs picked out by Sherlock. Number four was a tall bloke with a couple of days of designer stubble, who was standing with a rather shapely blonde. Sherlock filled in the details, "Tom and Cheryl Conrad- brother and sister, a likely combination for this scam." When Greg looked at Pair Nine, he saw a dark-haired couple, possibly Mediterranean in origin. Sherlock continued, "Meet Alexi Psarra and Timos Aristopolis. Greek, and engaged, making money in London for the wedding next summer back home in Athens." Greg grinned at the consulting detective, "Ah, we have motive, although if Tom Conrad is paying alimony, my money is on him." Lestrade was feeling anxious about his wife's threat of divorce.

The PA system came on with a feedback squeal, as the race organiser welcomed the bikers. The teams were told to keep their engines off but wheel their bikes to the starting line, where they would be getting their instructions for their first destination from despatchers.

Sherlock told him not to try for a front position, just mid-way in the pack, but on the extreme right. When Greg looked confused, Sherlock explained. "We won't know until we get the first destination whether we want to go ahead or turn around and go in the opposite direction. Being in the front would be a disadvantage in that case."

"You sound like you've done this before."

Sherlock smirked as he put on the crash helmet. "Well, the betting pool has already made us favourites."

Greg looked astonished. "Why would they do that?"

"I have worked as a freelance courier before. Cocaine is expensive, Lestrade. And how else do you think I learned so much about London's roads and where all the cameras are? You never check the milometer on your bike, do you?"

Greg was horrified. Years ago, Sherlock had been absconding with the Norton, to help fuel his drug habit? It beggared belief. He chose to focus instead on recent history. "You've done this rally before?"

"Yes, it's done every year in a different location. While most couriers just study the road maps, I think in 3D, so spent some time last week working on Google street view. I swept the pool last year- it was in Cambridge, so I did have a rather unfair advantage, but it paid for the new laptop, smart phone and microscope."

The PA squawked again. "Couriers, start your engines!"

Greg kicked the Norton to life as the radio attached to their bibs crackled. Rob came on and gave them their first destination: Lloyds Bank Branch, North Street.

"That's in the Lanes," Sherlock shouted to be heard over the roar of the other bikes. "Make a U turn and head straight west along the coast road." Greg opened the throttle, and shouted back, "hang on!"


	5. Treasure Hunt

Greg learned very quickly that Sherlock's street knowledge of Brighton was almost as good as London. And he also learned why Sherlock was likely to win this event as easily as he did last year when it was in Cambridge. The Consulting Detective did not worry about things like pedestrian-only zones, one way streets and other niceties. He was just as likely to tell Greg to take a short cut straight through a car park, shopping mall or down an alleyway full of delivery vans as he was to go on an obvious road. When he shouted "turn left after that white parked car", Greg ended up bouncing the Norton Ranger down a set of stairs to the street below, just to shave off a couple of minutes that would have been needed to access the road legally.

When Greg got to the bottom of the stairs, he turned back to shout at Sherlock. "We could get arrested for that, you know!"

"Not a chance, Lestrade. The local police know that any traffic violations they tried to prosecute would just end up clogging the courts. Everyone agrees to turn a blind eye for a morning, unless someone actually hits something, or someone. Actually, couriers are very safe law-abiding drivers, or they'd lose their livelihoods. It's only amateurs like me who will bend the rules quite so ruthlessly. Just be careful to avoid pedestrians, will you? Now get going, we're losing time."

At each destination, Sherlock vaulted off the back of the motorbike, ran into the business and got his clipboard stamped, picking up at the same time the next destination from Rob, who could only release the info on receipt of the code word unique to that destination and team. By the time Sherlock was on the back of the Ranger again, he had already plotted out their journey. No sat nav would ever be fast enough to compete with Sherlock's brain speed. While other navigators were keying in post codes and street names into their phones, Sherlock had already figured out exactly which roads were likely to be clearest at this particular time of day, and what traffic lights were so long that going a different route involving a greater distance would actually turn out to be faster.

Greg's only comment when they picked up their third code word was "They should think about handicapping you- it's too easy for you to run circles around the other teams." Sherlock smirked, "Don't tell me you're complaining, Lestrade; you're loving every minute of this. Confess- this beats that trip to Tesco you were thinking about." That made Greg laugh out loud.

As they roared from one to another of their destinations, Greg spotted other teams going about their business. The whole point of the race marshalling was to ensure that every team had a different order, so few of the teams ever ended up at the same destination at the same time, so how this was supposed to be revealing which of the teams were the scam artists behind the stockbroker thefts, the DI had his doubts. Maybe Sherlock just wanted someone to share in the fun.

When they crossed the finish line and handed the clipboard with the nine stamps on it, Rob was there to clap them in. "Always knew you'd do it, laddie. And that Norton is just suited to the hare-brained routes I'm sure you took."

Sherlock pulled off the crash helmet and shook his hair out. "What odds did you get in the end?"

"The best I could get you is a 3-to-5, so your bet returns you only £200 more than you bet." The big man handed over the cash. "Sherlock, you're going to have to come in disguise next year if you want to earn more."

Sherlock told Greg that he needed to watch as the other teams to come in. "Their reactions to their finishing positions will tell me a lot, and possibly enough to decide whether Pair 4 or Pair 9 is the prime suspect. Just go get a cup of coffee- or better still, have lunch. That way we won't have to stop on the way back."

Greg chose to have a sandwich and a soft drink at the café across the road from the finishing line on Marine Parade. That way, he could keep his eye on Sherlock and on the teams as they came in. He just had time to order his tuna mayonnaise baguette and settle into his seat looking out over the waterfront before the second team came across the finishing line. Thereafter, the teams came in rapid sequence, the two suspect scratch teams tearing across the last 100 meters in an almost dead heat. Greg finished his sandwich, downed the last of his drink and was crossing the road back to where Sherlock was lounging against the Norton Ranger. No sooner did the dark-haired pair hand their clipboard over to the race officials than the woman on the back had ripped her helmet off and started shouting in Greek at her fiancé.

By the time he reached Sherlock, the Greek man was shouting back at her. Greg looked enquiringly at Sherlock.

"Yes, Lestrade, I learned Classical Greek at school, and the modern language was a breeze after that. These two are now the prime suspects. She's berating him for not taking the right turn on the last stop, and he's shouting back at her that she doesn't know her left from her right. They're both angry about losing money on a very large bet, and she just said they'd have to, and I quote, 'find another one soon' end quote."

"Well, that's pretty suspicious, I grant you that. What happens next?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's been bothering you, hasn't it? What I said back in London about the best way to catch the criminals is to do the crime myself? Well you can relax,  _Detective Inspector._ " If his emphasis on the title was a bit firm, Greg chose not to be offended by it. Sherlock was right, of course, the idea had worried Greg.

"You and I now head back to London. I will contact the various brokers' compliance departments to see where she is temping at the moment. Once I get the details about where she is working, I will get them to put her under surveillance. As they just lost a bundle betting on themselves, they will probably try again sometime next week, as soon as she spots another bearer bond going across her desk. In fact, I might even be able to talk the Compliance Manager of whichever firm she is temping with to lay a trap. When she phones her fiancé, I will show up first, in the right courier company gear and take custody of the package, before her boyfriend can get there. Then when he shows up, the City police can arrest them both, and I will pass over the evidence- with the leads to all the other cases. Getting them to confess to the others should be easy; now that we know who is involved, the evidence trail will be easy to pick up, and the other brokers won't be given a choice about keeping it quiet once the police know. Case closed."

He looked at the older man with a satisfied smile, and handed over an envelope. "Here's your half of our winnings, Lestrade. If you want to get back home to your shopping, laundry and cleaning, we should start now to be back to London before the rush hour starts." He put his crash helmet back on and slipped onto the back of the bike.

oOo

Greg dropped Sherlock off at Baker Street. The DI was still smiling by the time he rolled the Norton back into the garage. The day had been a pleasant outing, indeed. Nobody died, no one ended up in hospital, no crime had been committed, a case had been solved and he and Sherlock had ...fun. Well, he had anyway. Sherlock would probably have simply seen it as "useful". Whatever floated his boat, Greg decided, but secretly hoped there would be more like it in the future.


End file.
